TASTING NOTES: CAW
Everyone knows there are only four things you need to make beer: water, malt, hops, and yeast.
Fell Racing is an equally simple brew, calling for nothing more than: a 7:15pm Wednesday start, four quid entry on the day, a couple of thousand feet of ascent, and a proper good pub at the finish line.
And as surely as the first human to sip the first beer must have thought ‘ey up, that’s smooth as owt’, the first person to run up Caw must have thought ‘Caw blimey! that’s rough as hell…’.
Picture the scene. A mild summer’s evening in the South Lakes. A pickup truck loaded with five fell runners, swinging their way along the lanes to Broughton Mills under the impeccable chauffeuring of Howgills’ finest moustachioed maverick Harry Carling (Cooling). Jack Wright rode shotgun, I took a back seat, and two of Ambleside AC’s incalculable number of Toms (Watt and Hare) squeezed in beside me. We opened the windows to enjoy the draught, and I tried to defend myself against the barrage of derision aimed at me by Jack regarding my improper use of the term ‘contour’. Consider yourself warned: ‘contouring up’ is apparently not an acceptable description for taking a diagonal line mostly-across but slightly-up a slope.
Nestled in the Lickle Valley (that’s not a cutesy way of saying little, that’s just its name), Broughton Mills is a quiet hamlet in one of the more mercifully tranquil corners of Lakeland. The fells around it are small and scabby – a delightful challenge for the discerning fell runner who likes their stones sharp, their bogs deep and their bracken plentiful. Local club Black Combe Runners put on two races in the valley: Dunnerdale, the ever popular autumnal closer in November, and Caw, this gnarly little gem of a spring launcher in May.
We parked, kitted up, faffed around, and strolled down the lane. Taking a break from ripping up and down the fells himself in order to man the stopwatch, RO Tim Ripper (off’ov the fell running power couple The Rippers, premier members of the nominative determinism running club, along with Ricky Lightfoot and Usain Bolt) greeted us at the registration table in front of the Blacksmith’s Arms, and robbed us each of 71% of the price of a pint of San Miguel in Wetherspoons (yes, really) by way of an entry fee.
There were sixty-odd runners who signed for Probably The Best Fell Race in the World*, and we ale gathered in front of the pub for the countdown. I couldn’t see any Calder Valley runners in attendance, which was a shame, as I do like to point and laugh at their Where’s Wally Red Striped vests whenever I get the opportunity.
*This article is brought to you in conjunction with our partners at Carlsberg A/S.
Tim shouted ‘Go!’ and we were off, starting with a fast mash up the steep road from the village to the foot of the fell. The Ambleside lads launched up the climb at a skål-ding hot pace, and by the time we summited The Knott, I felt quite uncannily as though I’d just recently woken up from a nine-pint session, half a kebab, and a couple of hours sleep on someone’s hallway floor. Good job that there was some fast running to do, as we all scampered along the quick trod that skirts beneath Raven’s Crag, and winds its way through Brunt fells. The going is squelchy here, requiring everyone to cask an appraising eye over the ground to find the firmest line (or else just splodge heavily through, like me).
And then the sight of Caw itself comes into view.
The ascent up it is a much lager one than the push up The Knott, and steeper too. My Bud James Harris seemed none the weiser about my presence behind him until I got within earshot, and started complaining about how rough and steep the climb was. ‘I wish I had a porter to carry my Required Kit’ I whinged. Known throughout the racing world for his Incredibly Positive Attitude (IPA), James grinned back, and probably said something lovely about how great this race was, all races are, and fell running is. He’s just that kind of bloke.
By now Jack Wright had a commanding lead, and was clearly enjoying racing on his old home turf (having grown up in nearly Broughton-In-Furness). Before the rest of us even had time to say ‘Kolsch’, he had turned at the top, and hammered it down the start of the descent.
The stout frame of Tom Simpson (yet another Tom from the green and blue super-club) had been running in second place since the start, but was being harried by Harry C as they began their descent. It looked like Tom was going to have a real fight on his hands, but at yeast he kept his head, and didn’t trip or fall. More(tti) power to him!
Some while later, I reached the top myself, screamed Sláinte! In the faces of the marshals by way of greeting, and began dropping back down the fellside like a stone covered in glue, Velcro, and those anti-slip surfaces they put on ramps and things like that, to make sure you go down them very slowly.
Good line choice is one of the fundamental Tenants of fell racing technique, and one which I firmly ballsed-up through the middle section of the descent, swinging too far left and ending up on the rocks, hopping from on to another, trying not to trip(el) over so as not to smack my chin (chin) on a boulder, and shouting ‘Bloody helles, this is hard!’ at anyone who would listen.
It was a long, leggy lope back along the runnable bits to The Knott, and an unrelenting foot-slapper of a backtrack down the road, but I couldn’t hear anyone behind me, so I eased off just a tad. It was thanks to this misjudgement that Mr. Harris nearly caught me santé-ring over the bridge, and a final push was required to not let him past, which got the job done, but made me feel quite pale at the finish line.
A good few minutes before, Jack had won the race, to the cheers of the waited masses, in a Stella time of 48 minutes and 30 seconds. With a baby imminent, Jack has been absolutely flying all year, with wins at Causey Pike, Loughrigg, Grisedale Grind, and a little race called Jura. The baby now having arrived (and well!), we can all perhaps hope that childcare responsibilities will take him out of action for at least a few weeks, to give the rest of us a chance to lose to somebody else instead. It’s only fair.
Barley half a minute later, there was an absolute nail-biter, as just four seconds separated second place (Tom S) from third place (Harry C). ‘My Goodness! (My Guinness)’* Mr. Ripper exclaimed at the sight of these two behemoths of the fell running world battling it out to the line.
*This article is brought to you in conjunction with our partners at Diageo PLC
I wouldn’t bother to mention fourth place, but Josh Hartley’s surname simply can’t go without inclusion on this occasion. First Woman was Rachel Simpson of Helm (1 hr 9 mins), and a special shout must also go to first V40 Lady: Becks Smith!
A few of us went for a dunk(el) in the river, before returning to the pub for a prizegiving bevvy. There is nothing an Englishperson loves more than a good pub, except probably their dogs, and complaining about the weather. And the Blacksmith’s Arms is a cracker. By which I mean, if you’re me and Josh H’s height, you certainly will be cracking your head on beams at every turn. Ah well, worth the pain, for that inimitable Lakeland vibe. Our carshare celebrated the victory of the best-car award, with all five us in Harry’s Hilux claiming top-ten honours, but we were shocked and dismayed that Tim hadn’t accounted for this team category in his provision of prizes.
And that was that. A good evening had by all, another successful year of a low-key classic, and another unnecessarily extended dad-joke of a report that I can only apologise for putting you through. And seeing as you ask, my favourite type of beer is a Mild. Dark and malty, but eminently drinkable. As a bit of an ‘old man’s beer’, you rarely see it on a pump anymore, and that’s a crying shame. I am neither an old man nor a dad, but I do love a Mild, and I do love a pun (31 of them).
All of which reminds me of a joke, told to me by the grumpiest log builder in Canada, who I used to work with:
Q: Why is American beer like having sex on a Canoe?
A: It’s f*****g close to water.
Sorry to the editor for that filth. Good job I didn’t find a way to get Bung Hole in this report. It’s part of the terminology of a cask, honest!
So get yerself down to Broughton Mills next Maytime if you want to quench your insatiable thirst for tasty races. It’s a barrel of Leffes, I promise.
33. Sorry.
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This article was originally written for The Fellrunner - the journal of the FRA - for Issue 139 (Summer 2023).
Bobby Gard-Storry
Cumbria, 2024